


brave little soldier boy

by aeoleus



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gaang (Avatar) as Family, Gen, I have a lot of feelings about that, I wrote this right after watching sozins comet and crying my eyes out, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Nightmares, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Post-Episode: s03e18-21 Sozin's Comet, They’re children. And they just fought and ended a war, well they end up a little traumatized, what is the price of allowing children to become the saviors of the world?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26862988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeoleus/pseuds/aeoleus
Summary: “Let the children sleep,” Iroh says softly to Hakoda. “And let us carry the weight of the world for a while.”Or: the night after Ozai’s defeat
Relationships: Katara & Zuko (Avatar), Zuko/happiness - Relationship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 218





	brave little soldier boy

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [brave little soldier boy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24555379) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> Hi all!  
> This work was orphaned by accident. I’m the original author, so im re-uploading everything as it was originally. Please check my tumblr (ta1k-less) and my profile for links to re-uploaded works or updates. So sorry for the inconvenience!  
> ____________________________________________
> 
> Hi all! I’m fifteen years late to this masterpiece but i cried my eyes out watching it so et voila.

“I won’t fight you.” 

Zuko is prostrate on the ground, cold tile beneath his fingers. He is not sure of much, but he is sure his father- _his father-_ will not fight him. 

“Hmm. You always were weak.” 

There’s a hand in his hair, yanking him up, and when Azula grins it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Oh, Zu-Zu,” She says softly, before she cups her hand around his cheek and lights him on fire.   
  


* * *

It’s embarrassing to be jerked awake from a nightmare. It’s more embarrassing to be jerked awake from a nightmare with tears streaming from both your eyes, breath coming in little uneven gasps that are oh-so contrary to every control exercise you were forced to do for hours as a child, every muscle in your body tensed for a fight, your face burning with heat as if it is still kindling for your father’s rage. 

But it happens anyways. 

_Get a grip._

Zuko tries to sit up and is immediately met with sharp pain that radiates from his stomach and into his shoulders. It hurts like a motherfucker and makes him wonder if he’s going to throw up the broth Katara made him drink, but it’s so _different_ from the phantom heat lingering in his cheek that he’s grateful. 

“Zuko.” 

He looks up sharply, flames sparking on his fingertips, and is met with a scene that takes a second to compute. Toph is snoring, huddled next to him and oblivious to his night terrors. Suki and Sokka are not far from her, wrapped together so tight Zuko thinks it would take an act of the spirits to separate them. 

Across the room, a little apart, Katara is sitting up against the wall. She’s in borrowed robes of deep crimson, and the unfamiliar, oversized fabric does nothing to distract from the bruising on her face, the blood dried on her brows. Zuko meets her exhausted eyes, and drops his gaze down to Aang, who is curled up in Katara’s lap, his hands fisted in her robes. Her arms are wrapped protectively around him. He’s finally asleep, turned in towards Katara like he can’t stand the thought of looking out at the world. 

Zuko wishes, not for the first or second or fiftieth time tonight, that Uncle was here. 

“I-Is he okay?” He tries hoarsely. Katara looks slowly down at the boy in her lap, and Zuko thinks the expression that passes over her face couldn’t be anything but sorrow. 

“No.” She says. Her hand ghosts over the back of his neck, like she’s checking him for injuries again. “No, I don’t think any of us are.” 

Zuko huffs a humorless laugh. 

They’re camped out in his old bedroom, having stripped several guest rooms of blankets and mattresses and piled them together. It’s childish, maybe, but the idea of sleeping separate from everyone else had nearly sent Aang into hysterics, and that was more than enough reason to do it. 

The day they’d had, the year they’d had, the _life_ they’d had, had exhausted and beaten and broken every single one of them. 

When Aang had touched down in the courtyard of the palace in the aftermath of his showdown with Ozai, barefoot in tattered robes, Katara had run towards him with her arms outstretched. 

And the Avatar, Master of All Four Elements, Bridge Between Worlds, Keeper of Peace, Harbinger of Balance and Natural Order, fell to his twelve-year-old knees and burst into racking sobs that shook his entire body.

“You did good, you did so good,” Katara kept mumbling, holding him tight to her. Zuko, sitting on the steps, could see from there as her hands glowed slightly and hovered over the scarring on his battered back. “It’s over. You did so good.” 

“Do you feel okay?” Katara asks quietly. Aang stirs, letting out a near-silent whimper, and she leans down to comfort him before looking back up at Zuko. Zuko doesn’t try to meet her eyes. Blue and bloodshot as they are, they’re likely to get the truth out of him before Zuko is ready to share it himself. 

He really has no idea what _okay_ is. He absent-mindedly runs his fingers over the disrupted skin where his father’s thumb had once dug into his forehead and charred it clean off. They’ve won, haven’t they? Ozai and Azula are locked away under guard. He has been named Regent, had immediately sent out letters recalling all Fire Nation troops. He’s supposed to feel good now. He is victorious. 

Instead, he just feels the pounding behind his eyes because he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in six years. He feels the heated stabbing of a lightning strike to his stomach. He feels the overbearing weight of his impending crown pulling his head down, down, down. 

He feels like he wants to curl up for a nap at their upper-ring apartment on a quiet afternoon, with Uncle running his fingers through his hair and tutting about how long it’s getting, and the sweet scent of jasmine wafting from the kitchen. 

“Uh,” Zuko manages, and forces his eyes up, though they’re certainly filled with tears at this point, to meet Katara’s. She softens immediately. 

“I meant your wounds.” She amends. 

Zuko looks down at the bandages wrapped around his bare torso. 

“Hurts.” he says. “Always does.”

Katara looks at him steadily. She shifts uncomfortably against the wall but keeps running her hand over Aang’s shoulders. 

“There’s, uh, room over here. If you want to lay down.” Zuko says, nodding at the mattress pushed against his own. 

Katara cranes her neck to look over, then nods in approval. She clambers to her feet, Aang in her arms like he weighs practically nothing, and deftly steps over her brother and sisters before settling Aang onto the mattress and slipping onto it in between him and Zuko. Zuko hands her a few blankets, and she tucks them around Aang, who immediately re-attaches himself to her side. 

For a few minutes, they sit in silence and stare at the moon through the window. Zuko wonders if Suki knows about Yue. If she cares. If she looks up at the moon and thanks her for protecting Sokka, for guiding their way and illuminating their dark. Or if she spits at it and drinks the bitter water of not being first, not being good enough. He glances over at Suki, her head tucked under Sokka’s arm and her face soft and relaxed, and thinks thanksgiving more probable. 

“I have scars, too.” Katara says after a while. Zuko looks over in surprise and finds her focused on her palms. She holds them out, and Zuko can make out the faint outline of old burn scars. 

Zuko knows the story, lets her tell it anyways. 

“When Aang first learned to firebend, he was too impatient. Couldn’t restrain himself. I kept warning him, but you know. He lost control and…” 

She splays out her fingers like she’s still feeling the dry heat of flames melting skin. 

“And you forgave him.” Zuko says. 

Katara nods, runs her hand down Aang’s back for the millionth time. 

“He didn’t mean to, and he apologized” She says softly. “He’s- he won’t even kill the mosquito-spiders that crawl up on Appa, makes Sokka catch them and release them. It wasn’t on purpose. It wasn’t-” Her eyes travel up him, taking stock of every scar and bruise and injustice and suffer-mark engraved on his bones, and finally settle on the hand-shaped mottled skin around his eye. 

“It wasn’t intended to hurt me.” 

Zuko intakes sharp air and digs his nails into the blankets pooled around his waist. He only knows he’s crying again when hot tears drip down his jaw onto his neck. 

_Weak,_ Azula whispers.

 _Shut up,_ Zuko growls.   
  


“You know,” Katara says. “I could help with the nightmares.”

“You could?” his voice cracks in hope, and his head dips down in shame until there’s a soft hand on his jaw, tilting it upwards. 

  
“I can at least try.” She says, and there’s suddenly a light, cool sensation running through his skull, and Zuko feels himself falling down, down, down, until he’s hit something soft and warm. Blankets are pulled up to his shoulder, there’s a hand running through his hair, and he no longer has a headache, so Zuko sleeps.

* * *

Iroh arrives at the palace before dawn and meets a tall man with the quiet confidence of a proven leader. He identifies himself as Hakoda, Sokka and Katara’s father and Chief of the Southern Water Tribe, and leads Iroh to the room where the children are sleeping. 

Zuko already has lists upon lists of tasks that must be accomplished, kings and ministers vying for his attention, and the Avatar must be involved in many of those meetings if they hope to rebuild even tentative relationships with the other nations. 

But when Hakoda quietly opens the door to Zuko’s bedroom, Iroh finds a scene that stops him in his tired tracks. 

There’s a pile of discarded and tattered clothing in the corner, covered in blood and soot and dirt, and worn-out shoes kicked off with reckless abandon.

The children are splayed out over the ground on stolen mattresses and blankets, piled close together like any more than a few inches apart could kill them. The marks of war are evident on their faces and bodies- casts and bandages and bruises and cuts, deep under-eyes and cautious expressions, like they still can’t quite relax, even in their sleep.

  
For the first time in six years, his nephew has not risen with the sun. He is huddled into the side of Katara, who has one hand splayed in his dark hair, and the other wrapped tight around the Avatar. There are bandages wrapped all up Zuko’s mid-section, and Iroh can see the fractal bruising of a lightning strike making its way up his chest. But he is asleep, his face turned towards Toph, who is tucked under his arm, and he looks calm. 

He looks at peace.   
  


Iroh turns towards Hakoda. 

“There are worse fates to be had than making a few dignitaries angry.” He says. “Let the children sleep, and let us carry the weight of the world for a while.” 


End file.
